


Laughter and Voice

by luminality



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminality/pseuds/luminality
Summary: Jean gets injured in the middle of a retrieval operation. Trant tries to keep him awake until the rescue team arrives.(English translation of웃음과 목소리byGlitterGranola)
Relationships: Trant Heidelstam/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Laughter and Voice

**Author's Note:**

Jean wakes up.

It’s dark. His vision swims, as if he were in the throes of a hangover. An awful, roiling nausea churns through him, and it takes all of his willpower to keep himself from puking his guts out right then and there. 

There’s a blur in front of him-- A face, he realizes, but he can’t make out who it is...

“Vic? Vic, can you hear me?”

_Trant_?

And just like that, the blur resolves into the pale, drawn face of Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Trant smiles. “I was just...uh, telling you about the cultural significance of medieval Ubi ballads, particularly the ones that were discovered by--”

Jean’s trying to remember why the hell Trant’s telling him about fucking medieval Ubi ballads when a wave of fatigue slams into him like a freight train.

He groans, closing his eyes and missing the flash of alarm that crosses Trant’s face.

Something’s wrong, Jean thinks with growing panic. He’s cold--deathly cold, as if his bones had frozen solid and his blood had turned to ice. He’s lying on the ground too, grit and gravel rough beneath his hands... 

_A corpse_ , he realizes. _I feel like a fucking corpse._

He tries to sit up. White-hot pain rips through his thigh. He screams. 

“Stay still, Jean,” he hears Trant say above the roar in his ears. “Just...just listen to my voice, okay?”

Waves of agony continue to pulse out from Jean’s leg. He breathes in short, shallow gasps, his entire body screaming at him to get away from the pain but he _can’t_ because--

And that’s when he remembers what happened. 

* * *

The Burnt Out Quarter--A graveyard of buildings, their warped, steel bones corroding to rust. Within the gaping belly of one of these concrete corpses lies an injured RCM officer and an anxious special consultant. Above them, the sky is gray; its light, muted. A humid wind rushes through the holes in the walls and windows, emitting a sound not unlike a dying scream. 

Trant looks up. A raindrop splashes onto his cheek. 

If there had been another man with them, he would have understood the hidden message carried by the wind. He would have turned to Trant and told them that help was coming, that Jean’s going to be alright--

But he is not there. 

The whisper of the city disappears, unheard, in the falling rain.

Outside the building’s crumbling husk, a motor carriage painted in blue and white police livery patiently waits in a clearing. A black shadow darts out from a nearby bush and comes to roost on the rearview mirror. Another one joins it shortly after. The two crows tap the mirror with their beaks, examining their own reflections with avian curiosity. More of their brethren come to roost with them. 

By evening, the MC's windows will have been shattered into pieces, broken glass crunching under the looter’s boots. 

In the land of the dead, only scavengers thrive. 

* * *

Strictly speaking, Jean and Trant weren’t supposed to be here. Two idiotic sergeants--dimwits who believed that preferred to shoot first and investigate later--had forgotten to collect a briefcase containing important evidence that they needed to corroborate a suspect’s testimony. Jean and Trant just had the misfortune of being the closest ones to the briefcase’s location when the call came in through the shortwave, which was how they were roped into this shitshow. 

“I’m going to tear those goddamned idiots apart when I see them,” Jean growled in the passenger seat. 

“It won’t be so bad,” Trant said as he carefully maneuvered the motor carriage around a pothole. “There’s plenty of unique flaura that can be found in the Burnt Out Quarter. If I remember correctly, it was Dr. Porter and his colleagues who--”

As Trant prattled on about some obscure biologist who came up with some complicated theory, Jean tuned out and began to plan out, in detail, how he was going to murder Torson and McLaine when he got back to the old silk mill.

Their task was simple. They didn’t have to fight through a gang of goons, interview a witness who couldn’t speak a word of Suresne, or keep a VIP in the smelly confines of Precinct 41 without them going berserk. No--they just had to get a briefcase from a cabinet in a ruined building in the Burnt Out Quarter. That’s all.

But since they were the unluckiest bastards on the face of Elysium, someone had beaten them to the briefcase: a bum who was so high on crack that his pupils looked like black balls of glass. They chased him through the ruined building, which seemed to be a labyrinth deliberately designed by a cruel god to inflict pain. All it took was a single misstep, and the floor would give way, causing you to plummet six feet to the bottom floor, where an iron rebar just so happened to be sticking out of the ground like a jagged fang.

With a slow, shuddering breath, Jean lifts his head and looks down at the bloody shaft protruding through his thigh. There’s no way he’s getting out of this without an industrial-strength cutter. Either that, or they saw his fucking leg off...

If Harry were here, Jean realizes, he’d probably be bawling his eyes out. Or talking to his tie. Or talking to the goddamned city while Jean bled out on the ground. 

He’s not sure which is worse: listening to Trant’s endless flood of trivia until he passed out, or listening to Harry talk to himself until he passed out. 

Jean turns his head to look at Trant, who was still talking with an almost desperate cheerfulness. Half of what he says passes right through Jean’s ears, but Jean musters what’s left of his consciousness to listen to that clear, soothing voice...

“The most memorable book that I’ve read on that topic is by Levidan. I can’t say it’s my favorite, but it definitely left an impression on me. The work has a lot of historical value, and I think you’d like it actually, given its nihilistic themes. Speaking of which, I spotted “The Navigator’s Parable” in the breakroom bookshelf, which is a very similar work to--”

“Trant.”

“Yes?”

“This lesson’s boring as fuck,” Jean mutters, his eyes half-lidded. “Makes me want to fall asleep--”

“No!” As if startled by his own voice, Trant clears his throat. “Sorry, Jean. I...We’ll talk about something else. Just...Please stay awake.”

Struggling to heed Trant’s ridiculous demand, Jean grips his thigh and bites back a groan. There’s a piece of cloth tied to his leg, a few inches above the wound. A tourniquet? 

He glances down. The cloth seems to be of fine make, and used to be a glossy gray. It’s ruined now, thoroughly drenched in blood. 

Following a hunch, Jean looks at Trant’s collar and sees telltale red spatters on the starched fabric. He tried to use his hands to stop the bleeding first, his inner detective muses despite the blood loss. Then he used his tie as a tourniquet…

Jean has no idea how much Trant’s tie and shirt cost, but he’s pretty sure that they’re both more expensive than the RCM-issued rags that he’s wearing. 

He smirks. Here he is, bleeding out on the ground, caught in the throes of mortal agony, and all he can think of is how much Trant’s clothes cost...

“Oh, let’s talk about a recent case,” he hears Trant say with renewed hope. “Do you remember the FOOD TRUCK SMUGGLER? I was able to analyze and predict the suspect’s actions based on the profiles of the victims and the pattern of the abductions, which led to some new leads. How did it turn out? I had to leave for Graad for business, so I couldn’t see it through.”

A fresh pulse of pain shoots up Jean's impaled leg. “Guy offed himself,” he says, voice strained. “The son of a bitch wanted to fuck things up for us till the end…”

“Oh. Um. That’s...unfortunate,” Trant finishes lamely. He checks his watch, then stands up and looks across the street, as if trying to see if someone’s coming...An ambulance, maybe? Jean remembers Trant saying something about help being on it’s way before he passed out the first time, but he’s not sure if that really happened. 

Jean shivers. It’s gotten colder. And he’s so, so tired…

“Jean? Jean, can you hear me?” Trant’s panicked voice pierces through the fog of exhaustion that clouds Jean’s mind.

“Yeah, I hear you,” he mutters. “Can’t not hear you even if I tried.”

He wasn’t being sarcastic. Trant’s always spoken with a unique cadence, and Jean’s always found himself fascinated by the other man’s voice, even if he didn’t always tune in to the trivia.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Trant says gently. “But I’d be even happier if you kept talking to me.”

Jean doesn’t reply. He can’t see Trant’s face anymore---His eyes keep closing. 

As his senses start to fail one by one, Jean clings to Trant’s voice like a man clinging to a rescuer's hand. 

  
  
“Do you remember that brunch we had at the new cafe across the Coalition Headquarters last week? The key lime pie was excellent,” Trant says, and Jean can hear the smile in his voice. “ I was wary about sprinkling citrus salt on top of it at first, but it turned out to be surprisingly good. You ordered black coffee and eggs benedict. I remember how annoyed you were when the yolk got on your cuffs.” A fond chuckle. “The old lady who sat at the next table couldn’t believe her ears.”

Jean finds himself smiling at the memory. If one could see the shape of people’s voices, Trant’s voice would shine like a morning star above a chaotic planet. But right now, that star is drifting further and further away...

“You asked...” he mumbles through numb lips. “You asked if we could take out a slice of apple pie. For Mik.”

“That’s right,” Trant whispers. “That’s right, Jean. Do you remember what happened next?”

With the last of his strength, Jean opens his eyes. He sees a crowd of people behind Trant, their clothes the color of paramedic uniforms. And Trant…

Trant’s not smiling. 

Frowning, Jean tries to speak, but it’s too late. 

The last thing that he sees before he passes out is the strange, startling sight of Trant’s distraught face.

* * *

Jean wakes up.

Light--harsh, white, and fluorescent--stabs into his retinas, making him wince and shield his face with his arm. Something brushes against his face. A white, plastic tag hangs from his wrist. _Patient: Vicquemare, J. Name of attending physician. Date of birth. Date of hospitalization--_

“Jean?”

He turns to his left and sees Judit Minot standing beside his bed, notebook in hand. 

“Are you able to talk?” She peers at him worriedly. 

Jean scoffs. “The hell do you mean? I hurt my leg, not my throat.”

Shaking her head, Judit hands him a cup of water from the side table next to his bed. When Jean takes the glass from her, he notices the dried blood clumped under his fingernails. 

“Did we get the briefcase?”

“Yes.” She gives him a weary smile. “That’s the only good news, I’m afraid.”

“And Trant?”

“He had to go somewhere. He asked me to watch over you before leaving. Why? Did you want to tell him something?”

Jean stays silent, the memory of Trant’s unsmiling face carved in his mind. 

"Maybe,” he says.

“Then rest. He’ll be here when you wake up.”

* * *

The next time Jean wakes up, he wakes up alone.

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed. There aren’t any windows in his room, and the lights are constantly on. It’s quiet--uncomfortably so. 

Jean never thought he’d say this, but he’d rather have Trant spewing trivia by his side than this loud, awful silence. 

Suddenly, as if some unnamed god had been listening to his prayer, the door opens, and Trant walks in. 

Their eyes meet. 

“Jean!” Trant zips to his side and proceeds to look Jean over. “You’re awake,” he says, smiling with relief.

“Please help Harry get his shit together,” Jean mutters to the invisible deity before he could stop himself. 

Trant frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jean coughs. “You...You look well.”

“Of course. If I’d been injured, I wouldn’t have been able to reach your MC and call for help on the shortwave.” Trant’s face darkens for a second, but he shakes his head and plasters a smile on his face again. “But let’s not talk about that, shall we?”

Jean looks at him, remembering that strange, unsettling expression on Trant’s face…

“Hey, thanks,” he says. “For…” 

_For calling for help. For staying with me. For trying to keep me awake._

_For being here._

Trant’s smile softens.

“No need to thank me, Jean. You would’ve done the same for me, after all.”

“You kidding?" Jean says, smirking. "I don’t have the patience to recite all the trivia in the world. Would’ve just smacked you in the face to keep you awake.”

Trant laughs. "Your sense of humor's back. I'll take that as a sign that you’re recovering well," he says, pulling a chair to the side of the bed and taking his seat. 

“You didn’t have to bombard me with facts. All you had to do was tell me about all the shit that Harry’s done, and I'd have jumped to my feet.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Trant glances at Jean’s bandaged leg. “And even if you did, you would’ve opened your wound and died on the spot from blood loss.” He chuckles, and Jean smiles too, as if those morbid words had been a joke. 

“You should get some more rest,” Trant says. “I’ll buy us both drinks as soon as you get back to your feet.”

Nodding, Jean yawns and settles back onto his pillow, grateful for the chance to sleep some more.

A rustle of cloth, then a blanket's being pulled up to his shoulders. As he lets Trant tuck him in, Jean notices the faint trace of dried blood under the Trant's fingernails... 

The last thing Jean sees before falling asleep is Trant’s smile, and the last thing he thinks of is the bright, warm sound of Trant's laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ GlitterGranola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterGranola/pseuds/GlitterGranola) for writing the original work and for allowing me to translate it, and to [ nicpic ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic) for helping with the Korean-English translation!


End file.
